Harley Greenoak's Charge

A body of Kafirs appeared in sight, coming down the road towards them. They seemed about thirty in number, and the glint of assegais was plain, even from these. Now, Kafirs were not wont to patrol the roads in armed bodies. They travelled normally in twos and threes, carrying the usual kerries. Yet these were many and armed.

Dick Selmes was conscious of a tightening of the heart. What did it mean, at that time of day, when the atmosphere was rife with disquieting reports?

“We must go through them,” he said. “There’s no other course short of turning and running away. And that wouldn’t do, you know.”

“Of course not,” said Hazel, who was really feeling very anxious. “I declare by now I hate the sight of these horrible wretches. I never want to set eyes on one again.”

“Well, you won’t in England,” said Dick, slily. “There are none there, you know.”

They were in among the group now, which parted to make way for them. Two or three gave them the good day, but it was in a derisive way, and asked for tobacco. Dick shook his head to signify that he had none, for he did not choose to stop in the middle of that wild-looking crowd, after recent experience. The savages leered at Hazel with bold stare, and muttered to each other. Again it was as well that neither of the two understood a word of what they said.

“What on earth have they got all those ox-tails for, I wonder?” she remarked, when they were through. For each had been the bearer of several severed tails, with the hide on, raw and red.

“Probably to make soup with,” laughed Dick. “Contact with civilisation must have taught them the luxury of the kitchen as well as that of the cellar. There’s the store.”

As they drew near the long, low, brick building, roofed with corrugated iron, the store-keeper came out. He was a tall, elderly man, with a grizzled beard. Dick had met him before.

“Why, it’s Mr Selmes,” he said, putting out a hand. “How’ do. How’ do, Miss.” Then again to Dick, “Where’s Greenoak?”

“Oh, he’s away on some mysterious errand of his own.”

“I’m afraid he’ll go on one o’ them once too often. I’m afraid I’m in a poor way to entertain ladies, but I’ve got the coffee kettle on, but only tinned milk.”

Hazel declared she wanted nothing better, and Sampson, disappearing inside, fished out a ricketty chair.

“You’ll be better here nor in there,” he said. “Kafirs and raw-hides, and so on, don’t make the inside of a shanty pleasant.”

As he went in again Dick followed him.

“What’s your idea as to the state of things, Sampson?” he said.

“My idea? There’ll be hell let loose, d’rectly. Nothing’ll stop it. You’d better warn Waybridge, from me, to trek.”

“No!”

“Yes. See. None of ’em come round trading now; no, not even for drinks. Just now, though, I had a robustious mob of Sandili’s Gaikas round here buying ox-tails. There’s been a trade in them lately.”

“What do they want them for, eh? Ox-tail soup?”

The other looked at him pityingly – then emitted a dry guffaw.

“Soup? War fal-lals, that’s what they’re for. And there are other signs.”

“Now I come to think of it, I’ve seen them before, in the Transkei.”

“Yes. You did service there with the Police, I’m told. Well, we don’t want to scare the young lady, but you tip the office from me to Waybridge to clear. There’ll be hell in a week or two at the outside.”

“I’ll tell him. But are you going to remain on here?”

“I dare say. They won’t hurt me. It wouldn’t pay them for one thing. Have a drop of grog?”

“Thanks.”

The store-keeper fished out a bottle of Boer brandy – of antipodal quality, of course, to that which he retailed in the native trade – and then they went outside and rejoined Hazel. She, drinking her coffee, narrated their experience at the wayside kraal.

“That’s Ngombayi’s crowd,” pronounced Sampson, “and they’re a bad lot. They’re a bit disturbed now, but they’ll quiet down in a week or two.”

Dick Selmes, contrasting this cool utterance with the prediction he had just heard, felt amused, but did not show it. Then, after a little more chat, they took their leave, returning by a devious route, so as to avoid the objectionable kraal.

Chapter Thirty Three.

The Generalship of Elsie McGunn

It was evening, but Waybridge had not returned. He had started early that morning for Fort Isiwa, to deliver a lot of slaughter oxen for commissariat purposes, for which he had received a very good price indeed. He had been selling off as much of his stock as he could, for although he did not believe the scare would come to anything, still it was as well to be prepared for the worst, and money in the bank was better than stock herded from a laager, with all the contingent risks. So he had set forth in high spirits.

His wife was in no way anxious. There was nothing of the “unprotected female” about her. If put to it she could level a barrel and reload as quickly and as calmly as one of the opposite sex; besides, there was Dick Selmes, who had already proved his grit. He, when he had suggested moving on, had met with such a whole-souled negative, as to set at rest any doubts that might have been lingering in his mind as to outstaying his welcome.

“Why, Mr Selmes, you’d never desert us unprotected females,” she had said. “John has to be away a bit, on and off, just now. And now you want to run away and leave us all alone.”

“Eh, that I’m sure he wadna be doing,” had struck in Elsie McGunn – who was clearing the table – with her usual lack of ceremony.

Dick roared. He wanted some outlet for the intense relief that this cordial welcome conveyed. It was like a reprieve. He would not have to leave Hazel yet. She was his, and now he could stay and take care of her.

“Why, Elsie, you’re a host in yourself,” he said. “A mere man, more or less, doesn’t count when you’re on hand.”

The Scotswoman, who was brawny and muscular, accepted the compliment; moreover, she and Dick were great friends. He delighted to chaff her, but by no means always got the best of the encounter.

“Ay. A’d tak ony sax o’ yon heathen sauvages and mak ’em wish they’d never been born,” she returned complacently. “Still, it’s weel to have a mon on the place, speeshully sic a mon as yeerself, Mr Selmes.”

“Thanks, Elsie,” said Dick, with another laugh, appreciating the sly chaff. “It’s a comfort to know that my trumpeter isn’t dead, anyhow.”

It was evening, and the usual rush of myriad stars flashed and twinkled in the warm velvety sky. The moon had not yet risen. Dick Selmes and Hazel were strolling about round the house. It was much better in the open air, they mutually agreed, and they were alone together. Their hostess was engaged in the putting to bed of her nursery of two.

“What nights these are,” Dick was saying, the glow of his pipe making a red spot in the darkness. “Now, at good old Hesketh’s it was always jolly shivery after dark. But here – ah, it’s like a dream.”

“I don’t know. I feel unaccountably depressed to-night,” replied the girl, with a little shiver. Dick noticed it.

“Darling, let me go in and get you a wrap,” he said eagerly. “You’re chilly.”

“No. I don’t want a wrap. I don’t know what it is, but I feel a sort of presentiment, as if something was going to happen. I’ve been feeling it all the afternoon, but I wouldn’t say anything about it for fear of communicating it to Mrs Waybridge and making you laugh at me.”

“As if I should ever do that. Now chuck off this presentiment, my Hazel. Why, yesterday afternoon you were saying you would always feel so safe with me – with me,” he added tenderly. “That was one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Was it? Well, then, Dick, it’s true. Oh, there are those horrid cattle groaning again. Will they never leave off?”

“But they often do it. If I were to drive them away they’d be back again in a minute or two. What does it matter? It pleases them and doesn’t hurt us.”

“It’s eerie, all the same,” she said, with another shiver.